


o honey, fare thee well (call my name and i'll be gone)

by augustdepot



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Canon Asexual Character, Cis Martin Blackwood, Discussions About Outing / Being Outed, First Time, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Religious Discussion, Spoilers for 199, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, discussions about sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 23:02:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30130221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustdepot/pseuds/augustdepot
Summary: Jon pulls Martin’s hand to his face to press a kiss against his palm. “You’ll be here for a long time, then, you know.”“I hope so.”(the first time, the last time)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 26
Kudos: 113





	o honey, fare thee well (call my name and i'll be gone)

**Author's Note:**

> hello again, it me. read the warnings at the bottom, please, if you have concerns about: discussions of religion, gender, sexuality (regarding asexuality and reactions to it), or outing, or if you're just not up for an overall feeling of hopelessness.
> 
> i've been passively thinking about this since yesterday when i listened and i don't want to be sad about it anymore so it's your problem. it's not been edited or cleaned or looked over, if you find anything that needs urgent fixing you can let me know if you want.
> 
> this is 98% sappy jon monologue, don't look for a plot, sometimes there isn't one
> 
> as always, jon is transgender, just chest and breasts used. see end if you want more details re: gender stuff
> 
> he's asexual of the sex favorable variety, features non explicit sexual activity (got too sad about it to write the porn, lads, what a life) and discussions of jon's relationship with sex and his sexuality. again, end notes if you want more.
> 
> this is compatible with the riddle song series if you want, but it didn't have anything that really tied it in directly so let's call it a free dlc.
> 
> title is from dink's song

Jon lets Martin take the bathroom first. The power isn’t working, and neither of them are up to fighting the generator, so they set a few of the emergency candles found in the closet along the sink. Fortunately, the water is running and the gas heater should give him enough time to clean up comfortably. He’ll have to duck, if he wants to use the shaky-looking shower head that attaches to the tap, but it’s better than nothing. Even after stopping off at his flat to clean themselves and pack he still has an unsettling tide-pool-water-vapor-chemical-clean smell to him, and after making their way up to Scotland in that wretched old work van, the grease and diesel fumes are clinging as well.

Neither of them knows how to start a fire properly, and they’re too tired to make an effort at experimenting. While Martin showers, Jon assembles a terracotta heater and hopes his memory is correct, picturing the one he’d read about in a brief, horrified fascination with survivalism as a child. One of the empty pots they’d seen abandoned outside set up on bricks with a big emergency candle below, a plate set beneath the candle to catch the wax, carefully placed in the center of the floor where it won’t be walked into or set the bed on fire.

Jon scrubs himself down quickly in the freezing kitchen with a damp dish towel and resigns himself to grimy hair for the night, far too exhausted to consider showering with cold water after Martin’s done. At least it’s long enough now for a little ponytail, if he pulls it back high enough on his head, and only a few loose strands escape, so he won’t have to feel it so drastically. 

Once he’s clean enough, he sets to making the bed. There’s a double mattress stacked on two box springs in the corner of the bedroom. The mattress is firm, which will be good for his aching back, but the sheets are the cheap microfiber sort that make his fingernails go a bit itchy when they catch and make that awful sound. They don’t seem dirty, thankfully, had been tucked into a pillowcase so they didn’t collect dust, don’t have mysterious stains to set off any alarms.

His real concern is the boxes on the opposite wall. There are a dozen old plastic milk crates zip-tied together as a makeshift dresser, and set beside them are two unopened air mattresses. He doesn’t quite understand why Daisy needed two beds, never mind three, and he’s been thinking very hard about other things to avoid an answer, just in case. He doesn’t want to use them. He wants to fall asleep where he can wake up and see Martin inches away and make sure he’s still solid.

He knows Martin isn’t well. When Jon had stopped at ten this morning, five or so hours into their drive after buying the van before sunrise, Martin couldn’t even stand for Jon to touch him. After feeling a hand against his arm, he left the bag of fast food Jon bought in the floorboard, climbed into the back of the van among the loose piles of things they’d collect from his flat, and had a good breakdown. It was miserable. Jon had never heard those sounds come from another person, sobs so heavy Jon’s own ribs ached from them, breaths so shallow Jon’s own chest hungered for air, cries of grief so desperate Jon’s heart cracked under the feeling. He loosed strings of apologies for things he’d done and begged for Jon to let him fade away because he can’t bear the weight of it, when Jon tried to tell him in a last bid at keeping him there, _Martin, please, I love you, please,_ Martin closed his eyes and covered his face and pleaded with him, _you don’t you don’t you don’t you don’t._

If barely three fingertips against his wrist does that, can Jon expect to share? He wants to. He wants to he wants to he wants to. He wants to climb into this bed with Martin against the wall so Jon can watch the door. He wants to feel heat from a body warming the air under the blankets, even if Martin’s is still cold. He wants to hear him breathing in the still silence of the house and know he’s real, he’s alive, he’s Jon’s, if only in this distant way, if only for now. There's every possibility he can’t have him the way he wants, but he doesn’t want him to fade away if he’s left by himself.

The door to the bathroom opens and there he is - old shirt and well-worn dark flannel, hair tousled and damp, glasses just a little fogged. He hesitates when he sees Jon sitting at the foot of the bed, holds his dirty clothes to his chest like a shield and watches him for a long moment. He drops them to the floor in the corner.

“Uh, do you… do you need something to sleep in? I know we only have… y’know, day clothes for you.” Martin nudges his bag with his foot. “Probably not the most comfortable.”

“Please.” Jon feels like there’s static all over his skin. He’d gotten his hands on a few things of Martin’s over the past months, had practically lived in the dove grey cardigan he used to keep on the back of his chair. Having something offered to him - Martin holding out pieces for Jon to take, giving them willingly, saying _these should do_ in a small voice, it’s a strange thrill he didn’t expect. “I appreciate it. I’ll just, uh.” He picks up his own bag, not nearly as full, and takes the clothes as he darts past Martin to the bathroom.

Christ.

It’s just clothes. Just an old red shirt with print so faded it can’t be made out, and thin black joggers, fortunately with a good drawstring to keep them on. Just clothes that Martin has worn, time and time again, until the mild scent of his soap clings. Just clothes that Jon pulls on, fabric that has touched Martin’s skin now settling over his own. Just clothes that have his hair on end with the bizarre joy of it. No need to have such a strong reaction. Just clothes. Just clothes that he sees on himself in the mirror, that smell faintly of some kind of bergamot-citrus blend, that were given to him moments ago freely. Just clothes. Just Martin’s clothes.

Once he’s calm and finished with his routine, he heads back to the bedroom.

Martin sits at the foot of the bed, where Jon had been earlier. There’s grey in his hair. There wasn’t before. Around his temples, patches in the front where it hangs against his forehead, a broad streak that swirls out from his crown, standing stark against the brown. He’s always been prone to slouching. He was the tallest in the Archives, had at least a few inches on Tim, must be at least eight above Jon, and always seemed eager to hide that. Now, he’s crumpled in on himself, like he can’t trust his back to hold him so he has to curl up smaller and smaller and smaller. The setting sun filters through a crack in the curtain and catches Martin’s face in a swirl of gold-tone dust motes. Jon loves him.

Jon sits close, but far enough away not to touch.

“Are you hungry? There’s probably a few shelf stable things.”

“No. I’m fine.”

He wants to ask if Martin’s okay, it seems the sort of thing people ask in these situations, but he isn’t, Jon knows full well he isn’t, and doesn’t want to be patronizing about it.

“Only half an hour or so till sunset, looks like. Think you can get some sleep?”

“Maybe.”

It’s nearly like looking at an old home video, how faded Martin is. Jon had exactly one, which had been lost when his grandmother passed, from when he was two or so years old - sat in his mother’s lap as she laughed at him, squirming and pouting and reaching out for the person recording while she tried to tie his hair into pigtails, furiously demanding his mother _stop it, no,_ his father’s voice crooning _just one more second, sweet thing, then you can come see me, but we have to get your head on right._ It looked like a dream, vague and soft and distant and something he yearned for so desperately, and now Martin sits in front of him, just as far away. He won’t let Martin be taken from him, too. He won’t watch him slip into the sea-salt haze that tried to claim him. He won’t have only tapes to remember him.

He nods to himself. “Worth a shot, at least. I think maybe things’ll be brighter after a good night of sleep.” Jon stands and collects the stack quilts they’d brought inside from the van. He ushers Martin up onto the bed, spreads one then two then three quilts on him to fight the chill - it had settled into his own bones after just that brief time in the Lonely, he can’t imagine how it must feel for Martin. Once that’s sorted, he tugs the curtains shut and makes sure they’re safe from outside eyes. He double checks the candle, this one in a bowl, is centered on the milk crate side table and won’t be a risk.

Jon’s considering which option - the dusty sofa, requires no setup but seems uncomfortable, vs the blow up mattress, loud and takes time but would likely sleep better - when he hears shuffling. He turns to see Martin has pushed down the corner of the blankets closest to Jon, a simple, silent offer. He takes it.

It’s… uncomfortable. He’d seen Martin asleep before, on the rare morning he snuck into storage to find a file before he woke up. He sleeps on his back, wide, one leg stuck out at an angle, an arm tossed over his head, letting out soft mumbles and sighs. It isn’t right, the way he’s curled up into himself, breaths shallow and quick, facing Jon but so far away his back must be pressed against the wall.

His eyes are closed. Jon takes the opportunity to look at him, all the things he missed.

The freckles that are heavier on one side of his face than the other, the ones that form a little triangle above his lip. He has a strong jaw. Jon had noticed early enough when Martin would give him a look after a particularly harsh word, and snap his mouth shut and huff as though to stop himself fighting back. A broad scar bisecting his left eyebrow that he blamed on a fall when he was young. The soft curve of his cheek, the shadow that shows he hadn’t shaved before bed. His eyelashes are long. They’d always made him look just a bit startled, made his eyes look even wider than they are. Jon remembers Tim cooing over them once, saying _it’s like Bambi’s watching me while I make calls,_ and Martin complaining that they brushed the lenses of his glasses if he didn’t sit them just right. 

Brown eyes, so dark they’re nearly black, fresh-turned earth, oversteeped tea, the barest ring of honey-gold flecks in the faint candlelight just around his pupil, opening to look back at Jon.

It would be easier, Jon thinks, if he were crying. Not that he wants Martin to be crying, _god_ no. But at least that seems to have a system in place - if he was crying, Jon could offer comfort, try to soothe him with soft words, and then maybe Martin would have had some sort of catharsis and snap back into place. He would say something mildly rude or poke fun at Jon for watching him. He’d ask if Jon was alright, worry worry worry, and mostly calm down once Jon reassured him. He’d lose the faded edges that make him look like an old photo in a newspaper, ruined by time.

He doesn’t know what to do with this. The blank face, the way his eyes unfocus before pulling back to Jon’s, the uncertain set of his mouth. Jon doesn’t know what to do about any of it.

Jon fumbles with his own feelings at the best of times. They’re always such a raging mess inside him, like being trapped in a hailstorm and trying to catch stones without being hurt. Sometimes, he can’t, instead he’s stuck watching and hoping he can recognize them as they pass. Maybe a happy, that he has Martin here, and angry, at Elias and Lukas and Martin and himself. Miserable under the weight of every day of the last twenty-odd years since he opened that damned book, but maybe one called gratitude that it brought him to Martin. He can’t tell, not when they crash to the ground and shatter around him, past the fact that he’s feeling _something,_ big and loud and stronger than the storm.

No. He knows what it is. He’s known since the day he died.

Now, with the sun finally set and only a flickering candle lighting the room, far from everything he knows, his life happily left behind to rot, body cold and aching, he knows more than he’s ever known anything, he loves him, he loves him, he loves him, he loves him, he loves him, so much that the feeling has replaced the blood inside him and it’s the only thing his heart holds.

Jon feels split open. Like all the pieces of him are out for Martin to see, if he wants. All he can do is offer them for taking.

He doesn’t know what to do, so he resorts to what he does know - he talks.

“I missed you,” he says into the darkness. He doesn’t expect an answer, and he doesn’t get one. Martin’s eyes stay focused. “I thought about this. Maybe not here, maybe not this way, but leaving. With you. I used to daydream about it. Where we would go. What kind of life we would have. I would pretend it was different. There were no extenuating circumstances. If we had the means to go where we pleased, and nothing keeping us from staying away, the sort of things we could do together. I remembered you saying you’d read about places, sometimes. It was that night we ordered from the Thai place, and we only got things neither of us had tasted before, it had to have been ten dishes or so in the end, but we used the company card so it didn’t matter, and we took that bottle of scotch out of Tim’s desk and sat on the floor in my office with it all spread out, and you let me sit close enough that my knee touched your leg. 

“You talked about different things you’d like to see someday, if you ever had the time and the money and the freedom to do it. That's what I wanted to do, if we got away, take you everywhere you ever wanted to go. It’s stupid, but the first one I thought about was that museum, the one in Croatia where people send in things that reminded them of past relationships, and how you said you were obsessed the idea. You said something about _putting your heartbreak on display, so someone will know they aren’t all alone, that other people have survived that feeling, even when it feels like that’s not possible._ And I thought I’d take you there someday and see it, and we would be so smug about how we’d never have anything to send because ours would work out. No one would ever see our heartbreak because we wouldn’t have any.”

He can see Martin’s jaw clench, just barely, see a twitch where his brow starts to furrow. It’s better than nothing. Jon will reach for any scrap he’s given.

“I remember I said the first bit when you told me, that we’d go someday. I remember cramming rad na in my mouth so I’d shut up and not say the rest. And then you said it wouldn’t be fair to drag me around someplace like that because it’s not my taste, but maybe we could go somewhere I would like, we could stop off at the Mundaneum on the way home so I could see how archiving’s really done, look at google before google, get a few tips to bring back.”

Martin takes a deep breath. There’s a hitch, just a little, and Jon watches his fingers curl into his palm.

“And when we were apart… it’s childish, but I would... I would pretend - I would imagine we’d gone somewhere like that, just because we could, and then we would come back to London and we’d go back to the same street, then the same building, then the same front door, and we’d drop our bags on the same floor and climb into the same bed and I wouldn’t have to say goodbye. You’d be there, right in front of me. And I would say goodnight, and that I love you, and know I would get to say it again when we woke up. And we-”

“Why are you doing this?” It sounds as though it’s been pulled out of him. A compulsion, not from the Eye, just Jon. Martin says it like he’s begging, soft, feeble, wavering, warning about the tears that have started to well up.

“Because I do. I love you. And you told me, in the van, that I didn’t. I do, and I have, since before I could even tell, and you don’t believe me. But it doesn’t work that way. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have been able to find you in the Lonely. And you wouldn’t have been able to follow me out if you didn’t love me, too.” Martin’s eyes close at that and he sucks in a harsh breath. Jon takes a deep breath of his own and can feel how tight his throat is. He’d rather not end up with both of them crying, but it seems that’s not going to be the case. He looks at Martin’s lip, the little patch of freckles above it. “And you don’t have to love me the same way I love you. It can be… Just as long as you do, somehow. Enough to know that I want you here. I don’t want you to go away. I survived it before, with other people, but I don’t know that I would if it was you.”

Jon doesn’t know if the sound Martin makes is a laugh or a sob. It’s an ugly noise, like the ones pulled out of him on the drive up, like something’s choking him.

“It’s… it’s a stupid fantasy, I know. All of them were. Just something to cling to. They weren’t important. The only thing I wanted was you.” Martin lets out a soft wail at that, and his throat rattles from the way he seems to be holding it in. Jon can feel a tear slipping down his cheek, followed by another, then another, until he knows he’s properly crying as well. His voice is heavy. “In any way I could have you. If I could be the person you were in love with, or if I could be your friend who sat on the floor and got drunk and tried new food with you, or if you would just let me see you every now and again so I would know you’re okay. I would be content with any pieces you give me. And it’s - if you do love me the same, it’s fine if you don’t want to do anything about it. You don’t owe me your love just because I want it.”

“You don’t, Jon, you _can’t.”_

“I do. Sometimes I think it’s all the human left in me. I’ve been swallowed up and the last thing I have of myself is how much I love you.”

Martin tries to move away but he’s already against the wall, and it’s so desperate, so bitter and biting and bleak, when he says, “I don’t want you to love me.”

And it’s worse than every other thing that’s happened to Jon these past years, hearing that. Every scare and scar and loss, a raindrop in the sea. It makes him want to scream and scream and scream and scream until his eyes are bloodshot and his throat is raw and and he’s torn his palms open with his fingernails and his body is all hollowed out so there’s no hurt left, the way he had when his grandmother woke him up before sunrise one morning and said his mother wasn’t coming to pick him up like she promised and she never, ever would.

And his mother is dead, and his father is dead, and his grandmother and Tim and Sasha and every other good thing in his life, but not Martin. He’s here, in the world, because someone cares enough to want him, and Jon won’t let him be taken away. Jon isn’t in this bed, trying to pretend he isn’t crying, just to let Martin drift back into nothing.

“Tough. You told me not to make things your decision, and so this one is mine. I’m choosing to love you. Right now, I’m choosing to love you more than anything else, and I’m choosing to love you for the rest of my life, however long it may be. And I won’t make your choice, it’s not mine to make. I can love you without getting anything back. You don’t have to make any decisions now, or ever if you don’t want to. But you need to know this. You need to know that you’ll survive this feeling. You’re going to wake up tomorrow, and then the day after that, and then every other day until you’re so old you’ve lost count, and you’re going to know that somewhere in this world someone loves you enough to want you to stay.”

The room is silent, only the barest hint of a hiss from the candles.

When Martin reaches for him, Jon isn’t ready, but he catches on quickly. His crying is the ugly sort, the kind that leaves wet spots on Jon’s chest as he cradles Martin against him, the kind that has him gasping for air and choking on his own breath, the kind that brings wailing and keening and broken begging with words Jon can’t understand. His tears are sea salt, crashing waves, gritty sand, and Jon wonders if the Lonely was in Bournemouth the whole time for how familiar it all tastes.

He can do this, at least. He can run his hand down Martin's back and drag his fingers through his hair and tell him it's okay, you'll be okay, it won't take you again. It takes longer than Jon expects for it to ease, but eventually it's not so severe. He can cry against Martin, stifle his own weeping for later. After what feels like hours, Martin catches his breath and his crying turns soft. It's not any better, really, the small sounds muffled in Jon's shirt. It just shows how quietly he's able to suffer.

Jon wonders, much later when Martin falls truly silent, if he's cried himself to sleep. All that's left is the gentle sound of breathing, stuffy and slow. Martin still clings to him. His forehead rests against Jon's collar, his fingers are tight in his shirt, his legs brush against Jon's, just barely. He's so cold, but Jon pretends he's getting warmer as the time goes by.

Just as Jon thinks he may be able to drift off himself, Martin pulls away.

“Sorry,” Martin says softly, with what may be a hint of a rueful laugh in his voice. “I didn’t mean to cry all over you.”

“I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just wanted you to know.”

Martin’s face verges on collapse again, but he drags himself back. It takes a long time for him to respond. Jon lets him have it. “I’m… I don’t think I’m going to be very good at it for a while. But I want to love you. And I want you to love me, even if it hurts to think about that right now. It’s… I _do_ love you, but it’s like I love you from underwater and I can’t get enough air for it. I remember what it’s like to breathe but I got pulled down and it’s too heavy. Now I’m just trying to swim back up.”

“That’s okay.” Jon drags his fingers across Martin’s forehead, brushes his hair back. “If you need a hand, let me know. I can love you until you’re back up here with me.”

"Okay," Martin says, low and nearly surprised. He wipes his eyes and sniffs. “Don’t suppose there’s tissues sitting anywhere on your side?”

Just the candle, Martin’s glasses, and Jon’s phone.

“Nothing. But I think I need a new shirt anyways, we can just wash this one.”

He blames the absolute whirlwind of a week - month? year? life? - he’s just faced for what he does. No reason he should be thinking reasonably after all that. A fair excuse.

Jon sits up and pulls the shirt over his head and hands it to Martin.

It’s still a bit chilly, despite the little heater doing its job, so he burrows back under the quilts immediately without going for the bags.

Martin has rolled to his back and is staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide, shirt clutched to his chest. His face looks red, even with just the candle for light.

“Oh, _Christ.”_ Jon frantically crosses his arms to cover his breasts as he realizes, despite being under the blankets. “I am _so_ sorry, I didn’t... I didn’t think about-”

He cuts himself off when he hears Martin snort. He watches him smile, slow and hesitant, then press the shirt against his face to quiet his giggling. It’s such a perfect sound that he can’t help joining in, the both of them baffled.

Martin rolls back over to face Jon. He doesn’t look _happy_ , Jon doesn’t think he could after all this, not so soon, but he’s softer, somehow.

“I promise I didn’t mean to flash you. I think my brain’s been disconnected.”

“Yeah, you really don’t need to do all that to get my attention, Jon.”

“In my defense, it’s been a very long day.”

“It has.” Martin wipes his eyes with the shirt again, cleans up where his nose is running, grimaces at the mess. He tosses it over Jon to the corner with the rest of their dirty clothes.

Jon looks at his freckles again and wonders what it would be like to kiss them. “I suppose it’s worth it, though. Seemed to cheer you up a bit. Maybe I’ll have to make a fool of myself more often.”

“You didn’t make… I just…” Martin shrugs, small and shy. “I had daydreams, too. And maybe mine weren’t… _all_ as family friendly as yours, there were a few that slipped in. Just… Never imagined that if I saw you take your shirt off it would be because my face is covered in snot and I’ve spent nearly-” He glances at his watch, squints to see. “-an hour and half crying on you.”

Jon thinks that if he had a little thought bubble over his head it would be row upon row of exclamation points at that. He hadn’t considered Martin would think of him in - well, no, he’s not a child, he’s not that naive. It’s just funny to have it confirmed out loud after so long. He knows Martin is at least somewhat attracted to him, he’s not completely obtuse, he’d picked up the hints. And he knows Martin experiences the whole mess differently - he recalls one late night or other when they called it research but really spent hours sitting on the cot finishing a rather nice rum they’d let the Institute pay for, when Martin mentioned accepting a date years before because _we were both just bored, and he was good to look at, and the first time I saw his shirt ride up in the stockroom I wanted to break him right in half._ It had dissolved into Jon laughing a mouthful of rum out his nose and hacking with giggling coughs, and Martin apologizing for saying it out loud, he’s so sorry, Jon, that’s why he doesn’t drink, he just can’t shut up when he does.

He’d wanted to be bold, that night, before he faltered. Had wanted to tell Martin he doesn’t get it, not really, the things he’d read in books and seen on TV or heard on the radio. Jon changed the subject very, very quickly. He could be bold, now, playful and light and easy after the storm of their escape, hope it could outshine some of the ache, just for a while.

“You’re making assumptions about the content of my daydreams. Sometimes we didn’t just come home from our fascinating lives and fall asleep on our opposite sides of the bed. _Sometimes,_ I even took my shirt off for you, and no one was crying.”

Martin furrows his brow and Jon can see, just barely, where the tip of his tongue sticks out, the way it always does when he’s thinking. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then repeats, then huffs.

“Is it… can I ask you…”

Probably a good conversation to have. There’s an easy introduction, at least. “I… assume you heard the tape? About how I _don’t.”_

He doesn’t expect the little stormy look on Martin’s face.

“Yeah. I used to listen to them when… you know, before Peter, when you... While you were gone. And they were just sort of background noise, like you were in the other room recording, and I didn't really think about what they were saying until I’d already heard it.”

“Bit of a shock for me, too, when I realized what exactly they were referring to.”

Martin purses his lips for a moment. “It wasn’t… It’s not that it was a _shock,_ it’s just that it wasn’t mine. It’s not for me, not unless you want me to know. Maybe it’s fair, I guess, if you talk to your new girlfriend about your old boyfriend. And I get gossip, that’s what people do when they’re stuck together. But it isn’t okay to out someone to their coworkers, especially the coworkers who want them dead. If Melanie and Basira heard me and Tim going on about what they get up to, they probably wouldn’t have been excited about it. They just… took something that was yours and held it up to the light, like it was another way to make sure everyone looked at you like you’re different and worse for it.”

Oh, if Jon doesn’t love him.

“It’s… for some people it is. Worse, I mean. That I don’t look at it the same way.”

“It’s just sex. It’s not the end point of a relationship.”

“No, but for some people it’s important. Some people need to have dates twice a week, some people need love letters, some people need separate beds, some people need to know their partner is attracted to them.”

“I guess. Just seems like… there’s other things that are bigger.”

Jon shuffles around until he’s on his stomach and slides his arms under the pillow. They’ve both been up for well over twenty-four hours but neither seem ready to sleep. If it keeps Martin focused, present, aware, he’ll talk about it, no matter how hard it is. Martin’s always been eager to talk to him, so if that’s what he needs Jon will make it happen. He can be honest, open, bare these parts of himself as long as Martin is alert and responding.

“You said it’s fair to talk about a former partner, right?” Never mind that he said _with a current partner._ Jon will stand right against that line and let Martin move him to whichever side is appropriate. “And even if we do go back to London anytime soon, I doubt they’ll want to see me, so it’s no social conflict to worry about.”

“If you think it’s important, then yeah. I can keep it to myself. Doubt the cattle we passed on the way in are gossips, anyways.”

Jon hums his agreement at that. “I appreciate that you feel so defensive. It wasn’t fair. Even if Georgie talked about it with Melanie, she didn’t need to spread it.”

Martin glances away, quickly, then looks back at Jon. “I’m sorry that it happened to you. It’s not fun to be in that position.” And Jon will ask him about that, like a person would, not like a monster, because the thought of someone doing that to Martin makes his stomach turn. But not now, not unless he offers.

He sighs, the kind that’s just to settle a body, before he begins. “Georgie and I didn’t break up because of sex. I’m sure it didn’t help things, but that relationship was five-ish months that ruined three years of friendship and kept us from speaking until I was literally a murder suspect. It wasn’t really a good thing for either of us, I don’t think. She… This isn’t to take away from my own faults. There were more than enough. But Georgie tends to think she knows just the right way you should feel about things, and just the right way you should react to how you feel. If you don’t she thinks you’re… repressing? Deflecting? I don’t know. Doesn’t help that she’s right, fairly often. Gives her positive reinforcement. And that’s not… She went through something, not long before we met. Something… truly horrible. I guess it’s just how she handled it. But that’s... So once I figured it out, that I wasn’t… doing it right, I guess, that was it for sex. But I suppose when your boyfriend panics and says he doesn’t think he’s attracted to you while you’re kissing his neck, you lose interest a bit.”

“Okay. I can agree maybe that’s not an ideal opener. So… what, she just said no more, cut off?”

“More or less. I told her I still like it. It’s fun. It feels good. It’s nice to be close to someone you care about, and know they feel good, too. But anything past a peck was apparently me trying to be accommodating. Didn’t matter that I was very obviously interested, I was just appeasing her and being some sort of... sexual martyr.”

Martin smiles at that. “I don’t remember learning about sexual martyrs in church.”

“Guess the Lutherans keep all the fun missionaries under wraps, then.” It gets a laugh, a little one. Jon thinks it may just be that he remembered which denomination Martin grew up in, that he’s laughing from the thrill of being important enough to keep pieces of, the way Jon feels when Martin does the same. “I just… I think it compounded things, on my end. I’m sure she had plenty of reasons. Well, I _know_ she did, because she shouted them at me before packing up all the things she’d left at mine and not coming back. But I hated it, that she didn’t trust me to know what I wanted.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says. “That the decision was taken from you.”

“I got through it. I just… I wanted her to listen to me when I told her it was… particular, the way I felt about sex, and her, and the way they fit together. I was already so confused about how I was feeling, and nervous about telling her, and then she assumed that it all meant I hated sex and didn’t want to be involved.”

Martin’s tongue pokes out again, and god if Jon didn’t miss that little habit, for a long moment before he says, “If you want to explain it I’m happy to listen.”

He doesn’t really want to explain it. He wants it to be known, without having to do so. But he wants Martin to understand it, to see where he is. He’s willing to explain it. He doesn’t even have the flush of something that follows on the rare occasion when this pops up - he’s never known if it’s anxiety or shame or fear or something else entirely, but it hasn’t come along yet. Being here in the dark with the orange glow behind him makes him feel brave. Confident. Like he could bring this piece of himself out to turn over in his hands and let Martin see it.

“I’ve never looked at someone for the first time and thought I’d be willing to sleep with them. Aesthetically? Plenty of people are fine to look at. I like to look at you, because I think you’re lovely.” Martin splutters at that, and Jon’s sure he’s blushing even if it’s too dark to tell. “I just didn’t see you for the first time and know you’re someone I would choose to have sex with above any other person.”

“I’d imagine I was rather low on the list after Pepper got in.”

“Who?”

“Pepper. The dog. I took her to the shelter and she was microchipped so they told me her name. I asked them to call me when she was picked up so I wouldn’t worry. She was home by three.”

“Mm. Good for her. But you’re right, I didn’t think the strange new man I had only sort-of passively seen in the library was someone I would ever be interested in sexually.”

Martin shrinks, just a touch, at being reminded that he had been no one to Jon once, but he seems to remember where he is and make an attempt to stay present. “Like. Okay, so is this like… I know what I’m trying to ask but not how to ask it.”

Jon thinks he might know where he’s going.

“I… Why did you spend so much time in my office?”

Martin frowns at him, waits for more. “What?”

“My office. You were in my office all the time, before the Unknowing, towards the end, at least when I was around. Tea, statements, dinner, just… sitting with me. Was it the box of old keyboards and mystery cables that never got tossed? Or the filing cabinet that had the stuck drawer? Maybe the patch of wall that got replaced and they didn’t match the original paint? Flooring, desk chair, tape recorders? There must have been a reason you wanted to be there.”

And Jon can nearly see the lightbulb flare over his head. “You were there. I didn’t care about your office except that’s where I could find you.”

“I didn’t think about what you look like. You just _were._ And when I realized I love you, I started looking at it. If someone who looked just like you passed by I wouldn’t think about it, but knowing your body is where I can find you is why I like it."

Martin considers, quiet and pensive, then says, “Okay.”

“And that’s fine?”

Martin starts and stops, fumbles over himself for a moment. “I mean. I am attracted to you, physically speaking. I was from pretty much the start. So I’m not going to say that I _get it_ , it’s not something I’m experiencing so there’s only so far my understanding goes, but I don’t have to get it to believe you and be respectful of it. It doesn’t change anything for me.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. You’re a grown man. You know what you want out of-” Martin stumbles over his words before sighing. “Out of a… partner? If you want to be with me then I’m not going to be upset that you’re not attracted to me.”

Jon huffs.

“That’s… that’s the thing. I… haven’t explored it much with people I actually care about. I had dates from time to time when I was younger, and if I ended up going home with them - it still felt fine. But I was never interested until things were happening. And… when things were good with Georgie I thought, sometimes, maybe, I got it. This is what people feel. And with you - it was... I caught myself loving you and I could find it, that feeling. Not just a sort of… abstract idea, something other people understood. And I still don’t know. Everything’s just been… so much. I don’t know that I could have worked it out if we were in a normal situation, and I hardly had time to work on my sexuality between kidnappings and murder attempts. Well, no, now I know clowns do nothing for me, at least.”

Martin chokes at that.

Jon’s aware that it isn’t unreasonable to still be learning himself at his age. Things aren’t as tidy as popular culture led him to believe in his youth - he didn’t wake up one morning and suddenly know himself. Instead, he’s thirty-one and completely baffled at the way he feels about Martin past a note that reads _!!!!!_ stuck on the Martin part of his head. How it connects between his body and his brain, if the things he’s experiencing wipe out all the things he read, if this is what everyone promised was wrong with him, fixed by falling in love.

“It’s okay if it changes,” Martin says. “I picked at a lot of things before I settled on one, and I’m not ruling out finding another one that fits better. If you decide that you feel a different way that’s fine.”

Jon hums.. “It’s… I don’t know that it’s changing, so much as I’m finding the edges of it. Mapping it out. Besides, I never even settled on a label in the first place. Georgie took me to a little group, once, right after, and all I got was a very small list of things it was acceptable to call myself. Or, much more enthusiastically, reasons it isn’t real, you’re just a prude shamed by heteronormative sexual standards who needs to overcome it.”

“That’s… stupid.”

“I know. I don’t think it was a high-quality group, so much as one that was meeting fastest after we had that talk. They didn’t say it out loud but even I can pick up on some subtext - they seemed to have the idea that one could only be gay or straight and any nuance was just repression or attention seeking.”

_“Yikes.”_

“Very much so.”

Martin rolls over to his front to match Jon, one arm under his pillow, the other settled between them. Jon wants to reach for it but he doesn't know if he’s allowed. Martin seems content to sit in silence for the time being so Jon watches him to make sure he stays - it appears to be coming in waves, the Lonely, letting Martin drag his way to shore before the rising tide pulls him back in. As long as he’s not drifting Jon is content to just be with him.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get the kind of support you needed,” Martin says after a while.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s _not._ I…” Martin scratches a fingernail against the miserable sheet as he thinks. Jon can’t stand the sound so he reaches out and takes his hand because he wanted to anyways and now he has an excuse. Martin takes a deep breath at that, just a little shaky, but turns his hand over to slide his fingers between Jon’s. “I don’t want to get into it now, but I know what it’s like to need that and not get it. Makes it a lot harder to understand where you are.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t get it, either.”

“Yeah.”

Jon turns his face into his pillow, needing a second to recover. He never expected Martin to be cruel about something like this, but it’s still a relief to hear Martin isn’t going to walk away from it, that he’s willing to be with Jon regardless, that he can say _I believe you_ and not play at knowing what Jon wants without asking.

While they’re going, it only makes sense to tell him.

Jon looks at Martin again and finds a fond little smile on his face.

“I think, if we’re discussing things in this vein, I need to tell you something else.”

Martin squeezes his hand. “You can if you want to. You don’t have to.”

“Considering the context, it may be relevant.”

“Okay. If you want.”

“So…” Jon laughs softly at himself, nerves finally welling up. “You, uh, might have noticed after my stunt a moment ago - it’s… I am. I am transgender. And I know that you’re gay, you’ve said as much before, and sometimes that… sometimes that means a very specific scope of bodies, and anything else isn’t acceptable. And sometimes that goes poorly for people like me.”

Martin’s face falls, just a touch, and Jon’s heart stops in his chest, as though the detonator was in Martin’s hand this time. Jon rushes to continue, make sure Martin knows what he’s saying.

“And - and you’re… you’re _lovely._ I don’t think you’re the sort who would try to… make me feel bad about that or anything. But I want it to be known, just in case. If… if that’s something that doesn’t… if you don’t want - this.” And he knows from the look he’s given Martin hears it - don’t want this, don’t want us, don’t want me.

“I do,” Martin says quickly. “I do want you. It - I won’t say it doesn’t matter, because it does to you, so it does to me. But that’s it, it’s important because it’s part of the whole package. It doesn’t change anything for me. And… I mean, I thought about it before, there was a boy I had a crush on when I worked at this cafe and he was really open about transitioning, but he was like. Ten years older than me. Not that it stopped me when I thought you were ten years older than me, but I was sixteen at the time and I wasn’t going there. It’s just. I… I’m gay, and that covers any sort of man. Or, I mean, male presenting person? I know there’s stuff I don’t get yet. But. You’re in the field. Y’know, of people. I guess.”

“Man is good. Mostly. There’s some things I may need to worry about later, but. Until I have the time, we’ll settle on man. Either way, I am not upset at being part of people.”

“Good. That’s… good. I, uh, didn’t know I’d ever told you I’m gay.”

“You, uh… It seemed like an accident?” Jon flips their hands over to put Martin’s on top, so he can look at the freckles on it.

“When?”

“Ages ago. When we went out for lunch all the time. That place that did the little flatbread things I liked, the girl behind the register gave you her number and you panicked and when we got outside you tore it up and tossed it. I suppose I gave you a look because you said you didn’t want to just leave it in case a creep tried to call her. And I asked if you weren’t going to use it and-” Jon has to take a second, delighted with the memory. “-you said, _I am very homosexual, that’s not something that’ll do me any good._ And then we didn’t go back because I was afraid you’d freeze and not be able to order if you saw her.”

Martin winces. “That was absolutely accidental. I wasn’t trying to hint or anything, but it just seemed very, very important that you knew I was interested in men. And then I said it and I thought I might as well climb in the bin with the receipt because I’d embarrassed myself being too desperate, but then I figured _no way Jon remembers this, he’s forgotten his own birthday multiple times,_ and as it turns out you did. So that’s good.”

“I did remember,” Jon says, and he can hear himself smiling. “I used to think it all the time when I tossed things. Lunch wrappers, scraps of paper, used up pens. First thing that crossed my mind. Don’t need them, Martin is very homosexual.”

“You’re incredibly cruel.”

“I liked you,” Jon says, and finds that it’s easy. This truth falls from his mouth without a second’s hesitation. “It was exciting, having it confirmed that I might be… in the running? I was like a kid learning to do early equations, and you gave me the last number I needed. If Jon equals man, and Martin equals likes men, solve for X. I was hopeful X is kissing.”

It sends Martin into a flurry of giggles at that and Jon joins in. He’s almost giddy with it, Martin knowing and still choosing to lay in bed with him and laugh at his stupid jokes. Martin who he knows will likely be called by the fog again but who keeps coming back. Martin who has a little triangle of freckles above his lip.

“I don’t think I needed an equation,” Martin says when he’s done laughing. “After Prentiss, when it was done, it settled. I just knew that’s what it was. Jon survived, and he’s faking that he doesn’t believe in this stuff, and he thought I was a ghost. I want to kiss him, and he might not want to kiss me, but I can at least try to make him happy other ways.”

“You do make me happy.” Jon is almost surprised at how vehement it is, nearly cutting Martin off. “You have. For longer than I can even remember. And I do want to kiss you, but I suppose I’ve already said that a few times tonight.”

“Then prove it.”

“What?”

Martin’s jaw is set the way it is when he’s going to make a point but he’s unsure of it. His eyes dart to Jon’s lips, only for a heartbeat. “Prove it,” he says with the smallest tremor in his voice. “You said you want to kiss me. Prove it. Solve for X.”

Jon doesn’t hesitate. He lifts himself to move toward Martin, who rolls to his back as Jon gets near. His eyes are wide and watery, and his hand reaches out to rest on Jon’s bare waist as he hovers over him.

Turns out it’s natural, kissing Martin. Jon hasn’t done this in years but with Martin it feels like instinct. The first touch has a flood of warmth spreading over his body, like he’s just sat by a fire after walking through a blizzard. It’s comfortable, soft, the low sound of their breath, the press of Martin’s nose into his cheek, the easy slide of Martin’s hand up his ribs. Jon finds himself falling, drifting, until he’s half-laid on Martin’s chest.

When Martin parts his lips, just enough to brush his tongue against Jon’s, a sense of urgency fills Jon’s stomach. He tilts his head, slips his fingers into Martin’s hair, can’t stifle the weak sound that comes from his throat. Martin reacts in kind, whimpering at Jon’s own reaction, a feedback loop with each of them passing the noises back and forth, taking turns pushing forward then falling back to follow.

It’s a strange sensation to feel the mostly-warm air from the heater and the too-chilled press of Martin’s body all at once. His hands leave a stinging trail as they pet his sides, his waist, his back. His breath aches as Jon breathes it in. His body barely feels like a body as Jon presses against it, just something to fill his clothes.

Jon decides it’s his mission to change it, in any way he can. He redoubles his efforts. He pushes, presses, rolls, half-covers Martin’s body with his own, lets Martin’s hands rove wherever they please in an effort to learn him.

When Jon touches Martin’s thigh he freezes.

Jon jerks back, starts to move to his side of the bed.

“No, it’s - you’re okay, Jon.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, that was _far_ too forward, you’re-”

“No, I’m sorry, just - just surprised me, I - I didn’t, uh…”

“No, it’s - I should have asked, that was-”

“It’s fine! It - it’s more than fine, I was just caught up and didn’t see it coming.”

“It doesn’t have to be fine-”

“It very much was.” Martin takes a deep breath. “That, uh. Wasn’t a complaint. Just didn’t expect it.”

And Martin is an adult. Jon knows he’s hardly himself right now, but he still trusts Martin enough to draw a line where it needs to be.

So Jon slowly sets his hand back on Martin’s thigh, lets it move higher until Martin twitches under the attention. “I don’t… I don’t know where you are right now, if this is… but. But if you want…”

Martin nods, quickly, a tear or two sliding down his cheek. “I do.”

Jon can’t say it’s _good,_ as such. It’s quick, messy, both of them crying through it. They fumble with each other, uncertain, desperate, overjoyed, terrified. They rush, and Jon knows he’ll be sore, but it’s worth it, in the end, with Martin’s weight on him, Martin’s hands on him, Martin’s lips on him. It’s worth it. It’s Martin. It’s perfect.

When it’s over, both of them splayed on separate sides of the bed to catch their breath, Jon can’t stop a frantic laugh bubbling up.

Martin hooks a finger around one of Jon’s. “I know it wasn’t great but it can’t have been that bad.”

“It wasn’t. It… um.” Jon’s breath hitches, and he hadn’t realized he was on the verge of tears again. Seems neither of them can keep it together tonight. “I didn’t think I’d get to have you again. And this… it was just… drove it home, I guess. I’m going to feel it for days and know you did it. It was real. I have you here with me.”

“Yeah. You do. You came after me and saved me and you have me. As long as you want me, you have me.”

Jon pulls Martin’s hand to his face to press a kiss against his palm. “You’ll be here for a long time, then, you know.”

“I hope so.” Martin rolls closer to Jon, drawing him in.

“Me too.”

When Martin pulls Jon into his chest, the tears start in earnest - he’s warm. He’s warm, and he smells like bergamot and sweat, and his hand cradles the back of Jon’s head. He breathes evenly, despite the thickness in his voice as he soothes Jon. His heart is steady under Jon’s ear. There’s grey in his hair, and freckles above his lip, and his body is soft where Jon clings to it. Jon takes his turn breaking down, lets himself be swallowed up, and knows he’ll survive the feeling.

* * *

Martin curls around him when they lay down for whatever passes for night. Jon’s heart thunders under Martin’s palm, and Martin’s where Jon’s hand wraps around his wrist.

He should sleep. He can’t.

“I never thought I would get to love someone,” Martin says. “Not like this.”

“Like what?”

“So much. Like it’s part of me.”

Jon rolls in Martin’s arms to face him. His eyes are swollen from all the crying they’ve done so far. His cheeks are red enough his freckles don’t stand out as much. His lip is split only just, at the corner where he tends to bite it.

“My mother told me this would happen.”

“What would happen?”

“This.” Martin scoffs and it sounds closer to a sob. “She told me, the first time I kissed a boy. He walked me home from school when we were fourteen, and he kissed me, just barely, and said goodbye, and he left. And she saw through the window, and told me it was cruel to do something like that to hurt her, and it was wrong to be this way, and this would happen, if I decided to love a man. I would go to hell. And I loved you, and now I’m in hell. I love you, and you came after me to the Lonely, and I marked you, and now we’re going to die, aren’t we? We can try, but it never works, nothing we do ever works. I love you, and the world ended, and I had a chance to stop it, before, and I didn’t.”

Jon presses his hand to Martin’s cheek. He can’t argue, because he knows it wouldn’t work, any more than Martin’s attempts at the same did.

“If there’s nothing else in my life that’s my own, I’m glad it’s this. No matter how much else they did, they can’t have this. I love you because I choose to. I want to love you. I’m glad I love you, and if we’re in hell, then I’m glad we’re in hell together.”

“I love you, so much, Jon-”

And he can’t take the crack in Martin’s voice, so he kisses him. It’s messy, miserable, full of everything he wishes he had time to say. He doesn’t know which of them starts it but they’re scrambling for each other’s clothes, hands harsh against each other’s bodies, whispering desperate pleas into each other’s mouths.

It’s frantic, and desperate, but still so slow, gentle, both of them crying through it. 

Jon knows he’ll be sore, but he bats Martin away after only the most perfunctory foreplay. He needs it to hurt, to be too much, so tomorrow he’ll feel the ache where Martin was in his body, have proof of the way he loved him. When he comes, it isn’t comfortable, the way it has been every other time they’ve done this. He feels filthy, guilty, empty in so many ways. From the look of him, Martin feels the same.

They lay together on the little pallet, skin cooling, breath hitching, each of them pretending they’re fine. Martin turns to him and opens his arms. Jon falls into them. 

“Tell me…” Martin trails off, his already-feeble voice fading away.

“Tell you what?”

“What you imagine. When you think of not being here. Us, somewhere else.”

Jon’s sobs and he tries to hide it, but he knows he’s failed when Martin pulls him even closer.

“Sometimes it’s at the Institute. It’s a normal place, and you’re still in the library, and I’m still in Research, and I peek at you over the top of my book like a schoolkid. Sometimes we’re in the Archives and we chase the dog together and I look up at you once you’ve caught her and I know. Or we’re young, I come to London and meet you on a long weekend away from University, and I’m different from how I am now, but you love me anyways. Or younger, and you’re so dear to me, and when we’re grown I realize how long I’ve loved you. How long we’ve loved each other.”

“What do we do, after? Once we love each other?”

“We have a home somewhere, where there are doors left open between rooms so we can hear each other wherever we are and windows to let in sunlight and curtains to hide the dark and a fire burning in the heart of it. You write me poems, and I tease you, and then I keep them in the drawer by our bed to read again when you’re asleep. The tub is big enough for both of us, and we don’t have to be so close, but we choose to be. We have tea every morning in bed. There are bookshelves that we overfill so we have to stack some on the floor, and you complain when you kick them over, but we never get around to getting rid of them or buying another shelf. You show me how to sew, and I show you how to chop vegetables evenly. We love each other. Anyone who sees us knows it just from looking.

“I take you to the museum like I promised. You didn’t read about it and imagine you’d never go. We saw it together, when we planned a trip to anyplace we wanted, because we can afford it. We look at all the heartbreak, and we hurt for them, but we still leave together and feel a little bit smug because we’re going home to be together and nothing will change that. Nothing of ours will ever be part of the collection. You take me to the Mundaneum because I’ll like it, not because I’m an archivist. We stop two dozen other places and I take pictures of you at every one when you don’t notice and I set them each as the background on my phone in turn for the next few months. You tell me you did the same thing when you catch sight of one. We love each other.

“We get old, and grey, and weak, and one morning we don’t wake up, but it’s not bad, because it happened close enough that whoever lasted longer didn’t notice. We go somewhere else and find each other, or we don’t because there’s nothing else and we don’t mind because we were together, and we never had to be apart again, and we loved each other.”

Jon doesn’t realize how hard he’s shaking until he’s done, doesn’t hear the weeping against his back until he’s quiet, doesn’t realize how fucking angry he is that this life is the one he has and all the others were taken from him, from both of them, that there’s any reality that doesn’t end with them having a happy ending.

He presses his face to Martin’s and hopes, if he can’t survive, at least this feeling will.

**Author's Note:**

> i appreciate you all being here and i thank you for your time, eye bless
> 
> if you have something that needs tagging / warning, comment or let me know @augustdepot on twitter if you don't want it public
> 
> warnings (look out for projection below, some of us are doing some self exploration)
> 
> gender: not super explicit, but jon sees his gender as "man, subject to review" and mentions that he's okay with being called a man but he wants the option to appeal that title
> 
> outing: georgie telling melanie who tells basira and it ends up on tape. jon is resigned to it, martin is upset by it. jon also takes his shirt right off and martin gets an eyeful.
> 
> sexuality: like his gender, jon's sexuality is "asexual (further investigation needed to determine subgenre)" and it's implied he's somewhere along grey/demi, but hasn't been able to explore it. mentions georgie assuming he's totally not into anything and not believing him when he tries to tell her. mentions jon and georgie going to a support group, but oops all exclusionists (the kind who think you can only be gay or straight and if you aren't allo it's because you're repressed by heteronormativity)
> 
> religion: martin's mother guilts him with religious consequences for being gay, he mentions going to hell / already being in hell
> 
> (ps if you like these boys crying and being upset and maybe not happy endings go read this one bc it's my favorite and i need validation that other people like it too but also please read the warnings: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29895183)


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